


Jambalaya

by mikeymagee



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Cooking, M/M, blackinfanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeymagee/pseuds/mikeymagee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcom and Luke hide away for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jambalaya

“Just try it,” Malcom said as he held his fork up to Luke’s face. Luke Cage, and Malcom Ducasse sat Indian style, on the floor of Luke apartment. The weather was cold and clammy, and the New York streets were bathed in a foggy rain that made travel by car impossible. So instead, Malcom insisted Luke stay.

“I’m not hungry,” Luke said as his fingers massaged his temple. This was all horribly unnecessary. Luke had to get back to the bar, he had to get ready for his shift, make sure no sticky fingered punk was trying to make off with his cash box. But the way Malcom pleaded, his brown eyes shimmering like amber in the weak light, made Luke Cage forget what he was meant to be doing.

Malcom had made dinner, some kind of Jambalaya recipe he had gotten from the internet. A mixture of sausage, and rice, and chicken, and hot sauce. It wasn’t exactly authentic (you couldn’t really get too many of the ingredients in Hell’s Kitchen) but Malcom had done his best regardless.

The lights flickered overhead. Dancing between illuminating truths and keeping secrets hidden.

“It won’t kill you to have one bite,” Malcom said.

“Yeah…I’m not buying it.” Luke Cage might have been more lenient around Malcom, but he wasn’t stupid. Half the time the guy could barely keep his head from sinking into his chest, and now he had tried his hand at cooking?

Malcom simply rolled his eyes, and placed the fork back down into the bowl. Luke Cage, for everything Malcolm had seen and heard of the man, was nothing short of incredible. His shoulders were broad strong, able to lift a semi-automatic over his head without so much as a grunt. His skin was a deep shade of brown, reflecting the light like a ruby. His always bragged of a hardened life, and an even harder outlook on it, but his eyes (soulful and soft) always called the bluff. He was a man of contradiction. Hope and pain all rolled into something Malcom could not quite process. But he wanted to…so very badly.

“Here,” Malcom grabbed his fork, shoveled a huge mound of rice onto it, and placed it in his mouth. He chewed, and swallowed, and batted his eyes. “See? Nothing to get upset about.”

“You do know,” Luke said with a tilted chin, “That that’s not how you make Jambalaya, right?”

“What?” Malcom asked.

“First off,” Luke slide the bowl over to himself, and moved its contents around. “There’s no shrimp,” he took a forkful of rice and sniffed, “And you’re not supposed to use hot sauce as a seasoning, and…” he shoved the fork into his mouth and frowned, “You’re supposed to use Andouille sausage, not…whatever the hell this was.”

The lights buzzed.

Malcom shrugged, “Well, I couldn’t exactly find all of that stuff so I had to improvise.”

Luke smiled. Improvisation. Using what you have to overcome what you don’t have. Cage had grown up in Harlem, the birthplace of improvising. He knew music, and Jazz and blues, subtle differences that were meant to place a stamp on what was never to be. This shouldn’t have worked…and yet it did. Malcom shouldn’t have been able to overcome…and yet he had. Kilgrave’s influence was enough to break even Captain America, the greatest soldier this country ever had, and yet Malcom found a way to not only deal…but heal others as well. He set up counseling groups, held meetings, did sessions with others. He improvised.

Everything was just improvisation.

“It ain’t half bad though,” Luke admitted. “It reminds me a lot of you.”

And Malcom smiled, “Is that your way of coming onto me?”

Luke Cage took his hands, strong and gentle, and wrapped them around Malcom’s shoulders…and he subtly placed lips to lips. Steeled, subtle mystery against the warm improv of Blues. “What do you think?”

And the lights overhead flickered.  


End file.
